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Bee yelps, scrambling out of bed so fast she rolls completely off the side, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Jesus, are you okay?” Aiden asks, his voice right outside the door now.
“Yeah, yeah. Dropped my phone,” I call back. “Out in five.”
His footsteps fade away, presumably to wait out front, and I chance a look at Bee. Her eyes are wide, her skin pale with fear and shock. It’s the perfect reminder of what this is—and isn’t—between us.
On the plus side, I’m not hard anymore.
“How about I pop by this week?”
I pull the phone away to swear silently. “Not sure this week is a good time, Mom.” It’s the second time I’ve put off seeing her.
“I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever see this house of yours,” she jokes, and I hate myself a little bit more.
“You will, I promise. Soon. Just…” I sigh. I can’t avoid it forever. “Let me talk to Bee and get back to you.”
It’s the coward’s way out, and that’s a label I’ve never wanted for myself, but she’ll want to ask about Dad, and I’m not even going to go there.
I don’t have an answer, and I’m not sure I ever will. Not where he’s concerned.
Funny, that Bee sees me as someone with their shit together.
For all of Bee’s insistence that she isn’t self-motivated, all I see is a woman who is bound and determined to curate her own happiness, who may need to be kept on track occasionally—and could absolutely do with recognizing how incredible she is—but she’s doing a hell of a lot better at achieving those goals than I have, and she’s almost a decade younger than me.
Ghostwriting works for Bee. It pays enough, and she’sgood at it. And even though she could scurry back to it, postpone her true dreams in lieu of something familiar, here she is, pushing herself out of her comfort zone. When was the last time I did that?
Gus accepts his weekly water eagerly, and I move quickly through the others before grabbing my gloves and moving to the living room.
My fittonia, Bertie, has outgrown her current home, and I’ve already laid an old sheet down to catch loose soil as I move her, making sure to free her roots first.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped hoping and started settling, except not in any way that made me truly happy. The only significant thing I’ve done in the last six years is buy this house, and I wouldn’t have been able to do it without her help. I hadn’t even planned beyond this step.
With Bertie re-homed and settled in next to Miles, I grin down at the grit under my nails and the soil staining my skin and jeans. Even the air smells rich with dirt and life. It pulls at something wild and untethered in me, beckoning for more. More plants, more joy, more life. It’s supposed to be calming, but all I feel is a jolt of excitement, reckless and abundant. I remember the heart-pounding adrenaline of packing a bag and disappearing. Slipping out in the middle of the night like shadows. Except we weren’t. We were leaving the darkness behind, chasing the dawn of a life no longer restrained by my father. It feels a little ridiculous to have that same hope now, with soil under my fingernails and a half dozen herbs lined up on the windowsill, but maybe it isn’t.
Hank hooked me up with some offcuts, or as we’reaffectionately calling them, James and Dean—thank you midnight viewing ofRebel Without A Cause—and there’s also a monstera (Bubbles) in the coolest area of the living room and a plumeria (Fran) on the front porch.
Now, I’m considering fresh herbs for the kitchen.
There’s enough space on the window ledge, but there’s also enough room along the living room window to build a planter box. It’ll be good for getting morning sun, and the materials will be cheap. Any excess could be used for shelving. Maybe Bee would like that. Are those floating ledges still a thing?
I want a yard, I’ve decided. At some point, I’m going to pull up the pavement between the porch and the fence. It’s a small space, but the prospect of clearing it up and making it my own is too good to pass up. It won’t be ready by summer, but if I plan ahead, I could have it ready for next spring. I could even put up a porch swing large enough for Bee to work from.
I want to quantify what we are to each other, but Bee is still evasive. It’s probably for the best, considering what Aiden said. It’s too late for me. She etched her name deep into the foundations of my soul as soon as she kissed me.
But if keeping that to myself saves her some heartache, I’ll take it to the grave.
There aren’t many secrets I’m comfortable keeping anymore. Growing up surrounded by them will do that.
There aren’t many good memories left, but what I do remember is stained. We were a unit once, the three of us. Long drives and sing-alongs. Picnics and ice creams. High fives over game-winning goals while wearing matching jerseys.
But those moments don’t exist alone. For every good memory, there’s at least two bad. Trapped in a car with silence as thick as smoke, awkward small talk in the sunshine while we all pretend everything is normal. The fatal tension of a losing match, like standing in a room slowly filling with gas, a lighter in hand.
I’m determined to do better for Bee. For myself.
Things are good now, but how can I know that I won’t mess it up?
“What do you think is your best quality?”
